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"monolithic" poems
I remember the history well: The soldiers and politicians emerged With briefcases and guns And celebrations on city nights. They scoured the mess Reviewed our history Saw the executions at dawn Then signed with secret policemen And decided something Had to be done. They scoured the mess Resurrected old blue-prints Of vicious times Tracked the shapes of sinking cities And learned at last That nothing can be avoided And so avoided everything. I remember the history well. 2 We emerged from our ******* mounds Discovered a view of the sky As the air danced in heat. Through the view of the city In flames, we rewound times Of executions at beaches. Salt streamed down our brows. Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections Monolithic accidents on hungry roads The infinite web of ethnic politics Power-dreams of fevered winds. The nation was a map stitched From the grabbing of future flesh And became a rush through Historical slime 3 We emerged on edge Of time future With bright fumes From burning towers. The fumes lit political rallies. We started a war Ended it And dreamed about our chance. Fat fish eat little fish Big ones arrange executions And armed robberies. Our ******* shapes us all. I remember the history well. The tiger’s snarl is bought In currencies of silence. Eggs grow large: A monstrous face is hatched. On the edge of time future I am a boy With running sores Of remember history Watching the stitches widen Waiting for the volcano’s laughter In the fevered winds Hearing the gnash Of those who will join us At the mighty gateways With new blue-prints With dew as seal And fire as constant And a trail through time past To us Who remember the history well. We weave words on red And sing on the edge of blue. And with our nerves primed We shall spin silk from ******* And frame time with our resolve. ________ Source: http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
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On Edge of Time Future
I remember the history well: The soldiers and politicians emerged With briefcases and guns And celebrations on city nights. They scoured the mess Reviewed our history Saw the executions at dawn Then signed with secret policemen And decided something Had to be done. They scoured the mess Resurrected old blue-prints Of vicious times Tracked the shapes of sinking cities And learned at last That nothing can be avoided And so avoided everything. I remember the history well. 2 We emerged from our ******* mounds Discovered a view of the sky As the air danced in heat. Through the view of the city In flames, we rewound times Of executions at beaches. Salt streamed down our brows. Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections Monolithic accidents on hungry roads The infinite web of ethnic politics Power-dreams of fevered winds. The nation was a map stitched From the grabbing of future flesh And became a rush through Historical slime 3 We emerged on edge Of time future With bright fumes From burning towers. The fumes lit political rallies. We started a war Ended it And dreamed about our chance. Fat fish eat little fish Big ones arrange executions And armed robberies. Our ******* shapes us all. I remember the history well. The tiger’s snarl is bought In currencies of silence. Eggs grow large: A monstrous face is hatched. On the edge of time future I am a boy With running sores Of remember history Watching the stitches widen Waiting for the volcano’s laughter In the fevered winds Hearing the gnash Of those who will join us At the mighty gateways With new blue-prints With dew as seal And fire as constant And a trail through time past To us Who remember the history well. We weave words on red And sing on the edge of blue. And with our nerves primed We shall spin silk from ******* And frame time with our resolve. ________ Source: http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml
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76
He thwack no metronome to kick oneself Thwack his **** sucker With his monolithic flaccid trunk rubber Me and my Dalek doped And my excrement unsweetened Copulate in the open without my jockstrap You shat encrusted to what you deflowered So at arm’s length ****** from all that we excreted in the wind’s eye And I bounce a bedevilled backwash My incredibles are shafted I’ll **** **** to Arab We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** posterior to her And I **** **** to… I **** **** to myself I ****** you powerfully The body beautiful’s not enough to go round You enjoy spanking and I wallow in ********* And ***** is like a tobacco teabag And I’m a bijou **** coming the corsets in custody We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** posterior to her And I **** **** to… Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab, Arab I **** **** to… I **** **** to… We only jabbered hasta la vista amongst homophones I croaked a hundredweight arsonists You **** **** to her And I **** **** to Arab
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Mar 26, 2010
Mar 26, 2010 at 4:34 PM UTC
**** To Arab
endless, monolithic desert roads stretch far, like a rug rolling it's tongue out for sandals, the car boiling and windows blowing cool air, like the wind trying to become stronger than the sun, and the song Breezebeats croons lyrics into my ear, like it can delete the silence in the rest of the world.
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May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
roadtrip
Ignorances innate wove curtain of veils Cut usunder heretofore obscuring Bodhicittas valedictory wintry gloom torn Of enlightenments will factioning the Silenced mammonish city kingdom truced As the wings of Azrael clinch Earthly thistles; monolithic raiments Deposed Hull, Hell and Halifax parcae The willowing of light unfettering Fenrirs Durance, howling aconite psalms suspiring Suffrage relict paving with mewed stars Redemptions tithed talents bequeathed Of Heavens sinister prayer burning Acinta dusts thine ashes threading The wilful sword of Gods destruction. ELEETE J MUIR.
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Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
The Web of Wyrd (The rise of Ragnarok)
Whenever  I am not seeing you Lethal void is my heart Like the monolithic art Of a sculptor; Like the figures of Mona Lisa, I tried to engrave you Again and again in my heart And rehearsed you many times In my memories. To reconstitute Your beautiful image Inside of my mind I behold you thousand times, Yet all loving and languishing Nothing could be captured To match your perfection As you were seen in person Nor could be remembered To your many dimensional figure Of youth unclaimed. You are just beautiful but demure, Seductive but unrevealing A love that slips down Near your lips were forbidden? And be never told? Like two balsam flowers unfold Opening from their buds, Your eyelids are open wide. Like two bees ******* honey My eyes were seeking yours To ferret out the secret Of your true love and desires; Neither did they come out Nor did they flutter And never reached out My beehive safely. Seeking out for your true love In your eyes, in your lips, Cheeks and chin far and near, Everywhere  all over you, Looking at you all the time. You are open to interpretation Of your true intention Of your love and desires Like the secret smiles Of Mona Lisa. Until you make confession Of your true love, I will behold you thousand times, You are just beautiful but demure Looking for you all the time. You make me dream about you While in my sleep or I am awake. My discrete memories Are overshadowed by time, I cannot fight with my feelings Whenever  I am not seeing you, Lethal void is my heart, Come and meet me in person!
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Oct 27, 2018
Oct 27, 2018 at 4:17 PM UTC
Behold You Thousand Times
Whenever  I am not seeing you Lethal void is my heart Like the monolithic art Of a sculptor; Like the figures of Mona Lisa, I tried to engrave you Again and again in my heart And rehearsed you many times In my memories. To reconstitute Your beautiful image Inside of my mind I behold you thousand times, Yet all loving and languishing Nothing could be captured To match your perfection As you were seen in person Nor could be remembered To your many dimensional figure Of youth unclaimed. You are just beautiful but demure, Seductive but unrevealing A love that slips down Near your lips were forbidden? And be never told? Like two balsam flowers unfold Opening from their buds, Your eyelids are open wide. Like two bees ******* honey My eyes were seeking yours To ferret out the secret Of your true love and desires; Neither did they come out Nor did they flutter And never reached out My beehive safely. Seeking out for your true love In your eyes, in your lips, Cheeks and chin far and near, Everywhere  all over you, Looking at you all the time. You are open to interpretation Of your true intention Of your love and desires Like the secret smiles Of Mona Lisa. Until you make confession Of your true love, I will behold you thousand times, You are just beautiful but demure Looking for you all the time. You make me dream about you While in my sleep or I am awake. My discrete memories Are overshadowed by time, I cannot fight with my feelings Whenever  I am not seeing you, Lethal void is my heart, Come and meet me in person!
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59
O pulchritudinous, for infinite climaxes For bilious spasms of pigswill For puce Popacatepetl pedigrees Above the perverted pampas! America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk, from brothel to gay red—light district O pulchritudinous, for spaceman bottoms Whose **** throbbing tapeworm A toucan crossing for slipperiness spifflicate Across the intergalactic space! America! America! Allah enrich thine ev’ry vice Reinvigorate thy ****** *********** inside monolithic ectoplasm, thy merrymaking inside pyramid! O pulchritudinous, for freaks got fat In disentangling feeding frenzy Who more than ***** their brothel slobbered over And velvet glove more than backbone! America! America! May Allah thy blonde exhaust Till all rave reviews be disreputableness and ev’ry come superhuman O pulchritudinous, for chauvinist muscleman That smells wide of the fourth dimension Thine lathery brothels lick Polished using giant armadillo excrement! America! America! Allah excreted his curses on thee And bang thy ****** in company with Islamic monk from brothel to gay red—light district
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Mar 25, 2010
Mar 25, 2010 at 5:22 PM UTC
America The Picture Postcard
(what the hell is an incel) the media portrays one loser outcast as every man, as if man is one big-ass monolithic hivemind spewing their loser germs everywhere think we got too much time on our hands at the checkpoint, selfies on various landmark celebrating the evil dead as the hero for the living, graffiti I look good in leather, also I look lovely in the blood of my enemies the hate a multifaceted gem in the cavern of my predatory eyes Would love you to join me in the unit the machine’s got to roll until Friday and then we can hatch our evil scheme man I think I have too much time on my hands
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May 3, 2018
May 3, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
:thonking emoji:
Prowling, like a wolf on the periphery of the unknown betwixt knowledge and dread I saw the dark truth I felt the gulf the waste the expanse the difference in power the taste of defeat the vice grip of the inevitable the long, slow bleed of my dignity flowing out with the gold of my entrails eviscerated by my pride how I dared to topple the monolithic, undeniable truth that there is always a better you a better me a better us, out there stronger bigger faster smarter more hung more fashionable more handsome, more beautiful, more androgynous more capable more accomplished more patient more... loving more empathetic they know more random facts they've been more places they've known more people they've seen more sunrises they've counted every moon their worst is better than your best day he cares for her more deeply than you did she loves that she's forgotten you he tells her what he never told you and she loves him for that you were always afraid to find out they never invite you because you're not fun what a downer what a bore there's always that one person upon whom your envy is never sated they lope in moonlight flowing locks of grace teeth bared in a frightful grin they know all your cards they can play you like a fiddle they're out there where you fear to go the apex predator the person you'll never be but dream you could and dreams are all you'll have...
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Oct 31, 2022
Oct 31, 2022 at 6:37 PM UTC
Predator...
(Inspired by article below) I. Continuity your filibuster egg of sand dazzled curiosity with creaky shell of hints heaped upon the tedium of knowledge's unfurl undeterred by encyclopedic impatience Assurances of rip(Van Winkl)ed economics shooed paper strings of revelation like anarchy-powered taxes summoning a foreword to anachronistic campaigns of environmental friendliness II. Meanwhile years have been filed down to flashes of chronology for continuity's organic rebus However long it took the economic karma to fall into the abodes of hedonistic pharaohs it was instant Skin that ruled behind the constitution of allergic breath bailed on the bones against their most sublime intentions Limbo-treading landlords huddled in their mummified freeze after breadline bashers scolded them with the spoils of a new brand of pyramid scheming Robbers of the coffin palaces stole the intimations of identity theft from today Immortality and freedom were compelled to share a meaning like estranged siblings or bound dynasties I(a). Abydos how you coyly toyed with us with a diversion bordering on monolithic 04 23 14
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Apr 23, 2014
Apr 23, 2014 at 12:58 PM UTC
VALLEY OF THE OTHER KINGS
Our lunar orphan has but Reflected light to offer As does a monolithic orphanage With cold harsh policies Being furtively undermined By beautifully wise children.
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Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 11:23 AM UTC
Orphans
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
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Aug 3, 2018
Aug 3, 2018 at 12:53 AM UTC
the new korean ******* poetry
Women of the ROK [South Korea] unite to protest the rash of digital camera up-skirting, hidden toilet cams & dressing room holes by an avant-garde subculture whose sole aim is to redefine beauty from  the bottom up; tearing down the old order    of mere very pretty faces for the surprise   the unseen; online ******* poets who wax romantically;  over South Korean women who wear the shortest skirts of any westernized Asian country; therefore, where the average woman is expected to be above average, what could be better than a possible *** or period stain; [        ], Rupi Koar laid the foundation [her soiled garments stinking of Canadian Desi BO; dreaming wistfully of the blossoming cherry-trees in the hidden grove, streams of crystalline blood threading through the golden grass; (dead as if she was [Sleeping Beauty (on the toilet)]) & w/ healthy [or unhealthy] doses of Baudelaire, Swinburne, Poe, Sade & Wilde; this new school of poets celebrating female underwear & bottoms & beyond; what could future generations make of various Internet pseudo-intellectual movements all coalescing into a monolithic computer culture driven by the embarrassment & shame of its female members & their ***** backsides & underwear; essentially odes on her laundry basket, odes on her farts, odes on her leavings, odes on her mother's droppings & leavings, &        her grandmothers' mothers leavings; South Korean women are the original race,                their intestine driven by pure lust [a South Korean woman's soul  is in her belly]
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32
A monolithic sculpture stands upon a hill. Ornate work of marble marks the artisan’s skill. Clad as a knight of yore, with stony gaze held high. Pilgrims travel from miles around to fall under his eye. Epitome of courage, virtue, and respect effused upon the villagers traits they should reflect. Elements gnawed at the stone but failed to corrode the manifold of lofty aims the knight would bestow. Dark years beset the kingdom causing disarray- Tyranny, vanity, and deceit led the people all astray. Artisan's work above, a shining icon of probity. A resolute bastion against the world’s impulsivity. A day will come when the people reach distress; crying out, they beseech the artisan’s redress, but long has the craftsman been journeying far away humbly allowing his handiwork, the message he conveys.
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Jul 23, 2021
Jul 23, 2021 at 9:26 PM UTC
The Elder Statue
Across the ice a baritone Projects his notes of steel, A tenor’s harmonizing Adds that melancholy feel And the glory of the voices Flows out through alders bare And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul And the tragedy found there. The tragic melancholy Found in every Russian heart Liberated by the sadness A fine harmony can impart. Of the monolithic yesterdays, Those forgotten fields of dead And that fire within the ***** Which numbs the agony of the head. Dark stains along the timber wall Wood fire’s stones make steam It fills the room with stifling heat Which sweats the bodies clean. Red wheals raised on shoulders Birch branches whip the back Whilst companion tones of maleness Speak in vectors women lack. Red larches in the foothills Gold lantern light on snow, The vastness of ancient steppes Of Central Asia grow. A viola’s velvet passion Sighs beneath a cottage door And the sadness in sensation Brings grown men to weep once more. The vastness of the terrain The hardness of the land, The bitter cold of northern wind, Each freezing winter spanned By Siberia’s lashing gales, White snow is metres deep And turquois ice as hard as steel Beneath which... rivers creep. Dostoyevsky,Kruschev, Rasputin and the Tsars, Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky And the swords of Horse Hussars. Gorbachev the great redeemer, Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin And the ****** found in Stalin's smile Span the politics of sin. This great Russian melancholy Lies deep within the soul It’s a legacy of yesterday Of her history's brutal goal. It’s a product of the suffering Inherent in the past Endured by legions of the people Then dispensed with… With a laugh! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 13 April 2009
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Jan 27, 2010
Jan 27, 2010 at 10:46 PM UTC
Melancholy Russia
Across the ice a baritone Projects his notes of steel, A tenor’s harmonizing Adds that melancholy feel And the glory of the voices Flows out through alders bare And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul And the tragedy found there. The tragic melancholy Found in every Russian heart Liberated by the sadness A fine harmony can impart. Of the monolithic yesterdays, Those forgotten fields of dead And that fire within the ***** Which numbs the agony of the head. Dark stains along the timber wall Wood fire’s stones make steam It fills the room with stifling heat Which sweats the bodies clean. Red wheals raised on shoulders Birch branches whip the back Whilst companion tones of maleness Speak in vectors women lack. Red larches in the foothills Gold lantern light on snow, The vastness of ancient steppes Of Central Asia grow. A viola’s velvet passion Sighs beneath a cottage door And the sadness in sensation Brings grown men to weep once more. The vastness of the terrain The hardness of the land, The bitter cold of northern wind, Each freezing winter spanned By Siberia’s lashing gales, White snow is metres deep And turquois ice as hard as steel Beneath which... rivers creep. Dostoyevsky,Kruschev, Rasputin and the Tsars, Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky And the swords of Horse Hussars. Gorbachev the great redeemer, Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin And the ****** found in Stalin's smile Span the politics of sin. This great Russian melancholy Lies deep within the soul It’s a legacy of yesterday Of her history's brutal goal. It’s a product of the suffering Inherent in the past Endured by legions of the people Then dispensed with… With a laugh! Marshalg @theBach Mangere Bridge 13 April 2009
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62
Evening docks like a desolate ship, indigo and monolithic, its umbral sails swelling above the distant hips of a titanic continent. Sleep tastes like a mossy anchor; it lurches, shifts, and slips into gear— the sound of stars grinding on stars. I sail across an ocean of teeth. I acquiesce. I drown in the velvet whirlpool of your absence.
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Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
Solo Voyage
The sky is ripe with stinking wet scorch marks, And bleeds in petrified phosphorescent snapshots, Trapped by droplets that Pour from scratched gorges, Clawed into the ether by electricity's unkempt fingernails: An unholy flow, funneled to quench A celestial ****** of tap-dancing crows; Their flickering ***** miming pastiche skeleton shapes, Beckoning black hole embers Through trap-doors to some ghastly Cathedral of Mirrors: A padlocked whinstone veil of white lightning, Encasing maze reflected upon monolithic maze - Paths billowing torrents of burning shadow - Thrusting day, night and apocalypse between Those rusting bars of strobe.
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Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 2:16 PM UTC
Luminous
a soft grey blanket flows through the peaks of green pines silencing the celestial voice of the moon while steel horses restlessly paw, panting gas fumes the volleyball desert, at first glance barren reveals a complex terrain of mountains and cigarettes to the watchful eagle's eye a wooden temple towers, built on artificial ground cool stone poured into aesthetically pleasing islands a forty square foot-print a holy site of human ingenuity with offerings from the clans of Miller and Busch lying scattered like bones on the monolithic plain anbaric lamps imitating miniature stars cast shadows at night and the once vibrant world takes on unifying hues of blue I guess the old adage that "misery loves company" is indiscriminate of nature
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Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 5:10 AM UTC
what do i see?
I love lighthouses; Lonely, desolate, cold Grown out of rocky outcrops Designed by monolithic architects, Where only ascetic souls can call home Their light, a beacon in the darkness To protect sailors from the smouldering sea, And all her whiles and trickery One lonely light, that shines out Like faith, like hope, like love So mariners will not plot a course Into the shallow depths of death, Book a room in Davy Jones’ Locker.
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Jun 28, 2019
Jun 28, 2019 at 1:47 PM UTC
Lighthouses
Like when they found the chariot wheels at the bottom of the Red Sea so was I surprised at the faint reaching of the fig tree, clinging to life amidst so much dust, as it reached ever upward in an infinite dance, unaware of its eventual wanweird fate. But I tracked on, crunching through the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped upon my back, coarse leather digging through my camel's hair robes, sandy grit forced in the gaps of my toes. I cracked the locusts and devoured them, dampening their bitterness with the sweet warming explosion of wild honey. So with bound Pleiades above me, I gave witness to Jerusalem, saying "After me will come one more powerful than I, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie." And I took them into the Jordan and made them new men. As the chill waters numbed their muscles, their hairs pricked up like gooseflesh, the night echoing with splashing water and murmured voices. But slowly the people trickled away, back to the twang of lutes, their ladles of soups, and I was left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting. So I sent forth the ravens, carrying my message, to meet at the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction, to come by wagon or camel, no matter of rain or flood. But they were stubborn and prideful, and would be moved from their couches probably by no less than one of Archimedes' great battleship levers, and even then with massive groaning like the coarse wooden hulls of those monolithic ships. Because the sweet taste of pastries is lodged upon their tongues, keeping them occupied with this world instead of the next. So here I'll stay, always waiting.
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Sep 10, 2012
Sep 10, 2012 at 1:02 AM UTC
John the Baptist
Like when they found the chariot wheels at the bottom of the Red Sea so was I surprised at the faint reaching of the fig tree, clinging to life amidst so much dust, as it reached ever upward in an infinite dance, unaware of its eventual wanweird fate. But I tracked on, crunching through the ancient dirt, scrolls strapped upon my back, coarse leather digging through my camel's hair robes, sandy grit forced in the gaps of my toes. I cracked the locusts and devoured them, dampening their bitterness with the sweet warming explosion of wild honey. So with bound Pleiades above me, I gave witness to Jerusalem, saying "After me will come one more powerful than I, the thongs of whose sandals I am not worthy to stoop down and untie." And I took them into the Jordan and made them new men. As the chill waters numbed their muscles, their hairs pricked up like gooseflesh, the night echoing with splashing water and murmured voices. But slowly the people trickled away, back to the twang of lutes, their ladles of soups, and I was left alone, sitting, contemplating, always waiting. So I sent forth the ravens, carrying my message, to meet at the Brookhollow no matter the obstruction, to come by wagon or camel, no matter of rain or flood. But they were stubborn and prideful, and would be moved from their couches probably by no less than one of Archimedes' great battleship levers, and even then with massive groaning like the coarse wooden hulls of those monolithic ships. Because the sweet taste of pastries is lodged upon their tongues, keeping them occupied with this world instead of the next. So here I'll stay, always waiting.
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48
Seeds of pure Brahma appear In the dark nothingness. In their infinitesimal Yet infinite dimensions They carry the code for all creation. Some fade away. Some persist. Propelled through will, An urgency to occupy and diffuse. Annihilation or coalition are inevitable. Some acquire magnificent tinges Worthy of acknowledgement. Others marred and maimed Are left to wither in exile. I meditate on the most promising one. Feel its inarticulatable essence As the intangible element Vanquish the void. The One now unfolds. Accreting into thoughts Before passing through The sieve of judgement. These thoughts sublime I crystallize. Choosing at will to blemish them With motley emotions Or monolithic reason. I, The creator, Awestruck by my own creation, The most magnificent in the domain Wherein I reign supreme, Hesitate. I hesitate to articulate. Knowing full well that tongue Will never be able to bear The simple complexity And the complex simplicity Of thought.
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Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 2:49 PM UTC
Thoughts
We strode together in another age, my love, You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses. I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal. You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess. Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now. In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication. We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters. We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon. A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies. A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire We felt for each other. The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then; But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day. Then there was just time...given and taken. Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm. Time in that better age...was a friend.   A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow, A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn. This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other. For however many lifetimes we may live in... We shall be one. Marshalg For darling Janet 12 September 2011
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Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
Commitment
Rebellious minds wander through enlightenment With new found insight into a deeper understanding An illuminated sense of self - disguised in complexity Stroking our ego's with a persuasive fascination Gutless contrarians thriving off schematic exceptions Objecting to proposals is all that seems formidable Double edged intellect embracing it's own prevarication Claiming supremacy as the better half of the equation One more plagiarized thought to dwell on Re-occurrence of Ideals in plain lucidity Come crawling forth from the genetic sea To stain our mind with a rhetorical monotony Monolithic horizons expanding out of view A facade of a paradise - lost in a new weary age These frail structures collapse and rebuild reclaiming everything that we once had known
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Jun 3, 2013
Jun 3, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
Undead Poet
stencil skin perforated by thousands of honeycombs stretched over a canvas of bones a grey eye of the storm inside solenoid ribs electromagnetic apparatus stained by organisms without programming ceaseless reproduction asexual monolithic tyrant womb entity gaping mouth holocaust of birth avatar of terror antithesis of providence
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Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:07 PM UTC
LIII
My flesh bears the stains Of all of my pains Scars are what they are The depth of some, too far. Some are horrific A tribute to my Monolithic hatred Of my own wellbeing Some are ugly Some are fair Some are subtle But all I bear Each has a story A lesson to be learned From my darkest deeds To my old glories I show and share them To warn those who care Lest you end up like me Caught in a devil's snare
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Jun 11, 2016
Jun 11, 2016 at 12:33 AM UTC
Beautiful Scars
- Rusting hulk - Monolithic reminder of gargantuan struggle - Tombstone of war -
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Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 4:26 AM UTC
HMS Hood (10 words)
It’s shattering, the splintering Crunch of greasy potato chips between my greedy molars: chips that taste like stale smoke and the salty yellow Crunch of the Mylar bag that holds them closer than a health-crazed mother holds her child. It’s drowning my senses out, the accountant-firm Crunch of black coffee characters beneath my crippled fingertips: keystrokes that sigh like short fuses and the riffled paper Crunch of the overpriced notebook that was sold to protect them against non-quantum uncertainties. It’s pointless, the mortar and pestle Crunch of sundried willpower before my monolithic day-planner: obligations that loom like thunderclouds and the omni-present Crunch of the rigid ticking deadline, that has concocted its scheme to unravel my pleasant net of silky procrastination.
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Feb 22, 2015
Feb 22, 2015 at 1:32 PM UTC
Crunch (2:23 am)